A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9), Fred Saberhagen [some good books to read TXT] 📗

* * *

      My brother’s face was no longer disfigured by the mustache I had glimpsed at the Tuileries on the tenth of August. He would not choose to wear that appearance in this company, nor did I choose to mention our near-meeting then. Nor, of course, was he wearing now either the red cap or the carmagnole.

      It so happened that I was now the one in disguise. On seeing me, one of Radu’s friends made some harsh jest about the soutane, asking when I had taken holy orders, and a little later inquired whether I intended to say mass.

      I gazed at him steadily. “I dislike jesting about sacred matters.”

      The vampire who had spoken fell silent, blinking, not knowing what to make of that dead-serious reply.

      “Vlad has had just cause to be upset with me.” Radu was musing aloud. His demeanor was that of one inclined to be forgiving. “In fact I sometimes fear that he might even nerve himself one day to make a serious attempt upon my life.” Radu turned to our peers and colleagues, wistfully inviting their understanding.

      “Do not tempt me,” I growled softly.

* * *

      Throughout the course of this dialogue, our peers and colleagues were looking at me thoughtfully, and I could see that most of them were not quite able to reconcile the figure I presented with the one they had been forming in their minds, based on Radu’s description.

      “So, this is the famous Prince of Wallachia?” one demanded suddenly.

      Having answered that question with regard to myself, if I thought it deserved a straight answer, I now repeated it, turning it on Radu.

      “Thou knowest who is famous and who is not.”

      My brother, it gradually became clear to me as I listened, had been telling these potential recruits to his cause that he was the one who had nailed the turbans of the sultan’s envoys to their heads. (Remind me to tell you about that, another time). He, the prince who had so thoroughly terrorized the potential criminal elements that a merchant’s bag of gold could lie untouched in the streets all night—but that story I have told elsewhere.

      At least Radu had been making those outrageous claims before I arrived. Constantia, who had been listening to them, knew better, and Radu of course realized this; but he also knew that she was not going to contradict him.

      The subject which had been under discussion before my arrival was soon taken up again: the recent shocking events of the Revolution, and how the profound changes taking place in the breathers’ society were going to affect their lives. Opinions were divided on the probable effect of these attacks upon the Church. The consensus was that almost any change was likely to be for the worse—a truer, more spiritually active church would not be a good thing for the villains in the group.

      One of them wondered, with a languid laugh, whether under the new regime aristocrats among the nosferatu might be called to account for drinking the blood of the unwilling. I had gathered from the speaker’s previous remarks that he was planning a dreadful vengeance on his peasants, who in their ignorance were congratulating themselves on having, as they thought, burned the lord of the manor alive.

      Eyes of divers colors, set in a variety of pallid faces, turned in my direction. Some, no doubt, were not impressed with what they saw. Well, it was not my purpose to appear impressive.

      One asked: “And what does our most recent arrival have to say upon the subject?”

      I was reluctant to comment on the Revolution, except to say that the lower classes were not without rights—as long as they chose to exercise them.

      “How do the Americans put it now—we are all ‘endowed by our Creator with certain inalienable rights’? In this the peasants of France are remarkably like everyone else. Including us.”

      My words were met with a largely uncomprehending silence.

Chapter Eleven

      From the moment of my entry I had been aware that the company had already been enjoying some refreshment. The remnants of some hors d’oeuvres were in fact scattered about, as I soon noticed: fragments of a few small human bodies, quite freshly dismembered, none more than three years old. When the bones are young enough and tender—so I am told—chewing by certain ruthless and discriminating connoisseurs extracts from them an essence composed largely of the blood-manufacturing cells which they contain.

      One of the infants’ lifeless bodies was in plain sight, and still recognizable for what it was. The soft, small bones had been crushed between vampires’ teeth and sucked dry. The floor was stained by a few small drops of fresh blood, wasted by some careless gourmet.

      The delicate peak of flavor, as I have heard from vampires who pride themselves upon their epicurean tastes, begins to fade into a steep decline almost instantly at death. For the true aficionado, only the cells of the living body will do.

      Constantia, catching my eye, shook her head slightly in a gesture of almost prim disapproval. Knowing my own poor opinion of such cannibalistic behavior, she desired to express her sympathy. Politeness, or her idea thereof, had perhaps kept her from stating any forceful objection, beyond merely declining to partake, when the recent snacks had been brought forth and offered round. I did not think it altogether beyond the bounds of possibility that she might have been persuaded to join Radu and his colleagues in their appetizer. For my own peace of mind, I never questioned her on the matter.

      But, as I have already indicated, the supply of treats was not yet exhausted. The single set of operating lungs, whose presence I had noted upon arrival, now sharply drew in air, filling themselves for a desperate effort. A small heart raced. There was a stir of motion in a far corner of the long room. The child who was to be the last hors d’oeuvre (she had hardly blood enough to provide the main course